Trust
by Emi Lillian Kitsune
Summary: "Sherlock always, always seemed to understand just what was going on, as much as you wished he didn't. But not this time." Something happened to Donovan, something that Sherlock missed. Quite dark.
1. Darkness

**Another fanfic in a day... I've just been in a writing mood lately. Fair warning: This one is undeniably dark.**

_And I assume she scrubbed your floor, going by the state of her knees._

Sally Donovan hugged her coat tighter around her as she walked against the icy wind pulling her curls away from her face. She could've hailed a cab, but this way she could pretend the moisture in her eyes was just a side effect of facing into a bracing breeze. And if she got into a cab, she didn't know if she'd ever be able to get out.

Maybe it had been stupid, hoping that he would see what no one else had. Of course it had been stupid. Everyone always assumed—as they should. Tall strong officer, she could take care of herself. But Sherlock always, _always_ seemed to understand just what was going on, as much as you wished he didn't.

But not this time.

Maybe it was better this way. Easier to move on. Donovan shuddered convulsively as the image of Anderson this morning, hand on her arm, floated through her mind.

_No. You're better than this._ It was getting harder to hold herself together. The wind seemed to be trying to pull her carefully reconstructed fragments apart again – maybe she should have taken a cab. No, this was better.

She held her key hard in her hand, jagged edge facing out, knuckles white. As much as she knew it was stupid, she couldn't bring herself to put it back in her pocket. It made her feel just a bit safer.

And then she was at her flat, numb fingers fumbling at the lock. She shut it behind her and checked twice more to make sure no one would get in, then made her slow way up the stairs, glancing behind her every few steps. It wasn't until she was in her bedroom, door locked, windows shut, bolted, and covered with blinds, closet and under the bed checked, kitchen knife in her hands, that she let herself fall apart.

Clutching her hair, she slid down the wall, horrible choked sobs wracking her body. Alone, there was nothing to stop the images rushing sickening through her brain until she thought she might throw up.

A part of her was shouting, telling her to pull herself together and grow up, this happened all the time, get over yourself and move on with your life. But she couldn't stop reliving it over and over and over again, the moment when they had been talking, just talking, respected friends on a case, and Anderson had pushed her up against the wall and—

_It's the trust,_ she thought numbly,_ It's the trust that kills you._

She buried the knife in the wall – or rather, tried to, as only the point went in and it stuck, vibrating. It was pathetic. She was pathetic.

All she felt now was a dull ache, reverberating from the center of her body. Everything else had been torn out of her, leaving her empty.

She clutched her hands until her fingernails bit through the skin and left little pockets of darker red on her hands. Drawing herself upright, she took the knife in her hands and promised never to sleep again.

Imagining steps on the stairs and the creak of the door opening, she lost herself to the darkness.


	2. Truth

I don't usually do individual review shout-outs, but I just have to give a gigantic thank-you to SmilingSloth – you completely inspired me, both to keep writing and to aim this fanfic in the direction it is currently heading. Thank you so much!

Also, Donovan's comment to John here isn't in the canonical place it should be – sorry!

Chapter 2

The next day she was back at work, because she was a cop, and that was her job. _The nights might be hell_, she told herself, _But during the day I can pretend._

"Donovan!" someone called as she was walking into the building.

Unable to suppress a flinch, she jerked around and saw the freak's new colleague – Watson – jogging towards her.

Clenching her fists, she waited.

"You're up early," she told him coldly, half out of genuine irritation, half to conceal the damn shaking in her voice.

"Sherlock left something in the office, apparently."

He held the door for her and she walked in as quickly as she dared, turning to avoid having her back to him.

Watson was giving her a strange look, doctor's eyes looking her up and down, trying to find something to diagnose.

"You're not his friend," she said, hoping to distract him. "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

Watson looked away, giving a somewhat sheepish chuckle. She relaxed slightly. "I've just met him."

Sally began to walk down the hallway.

"Okay, bit of advice, then. Stay away from him."

Watson – _damn him – _was following her.

"Why?"

She turned to face him again, aware that she was hopelessly twitchy. Her hands, still scratched from last night, ached as she clenched them.

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there." _I hope he does_, she thought viciously. _And I hope he takes Anderson with him._

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he's a" —_man._ She cleared her throat. "Psychopath. Psychopaths get bored."

"Donovan!" It wasn't Watson calling this time, and she turned away from him – nervous as it made her – and followed Lestrade's shout.

He sat behind his desk, rubbing his eyes.

"What is it?"

He began talking, but she wasn't really listening. Her mind seemed tuned to a different frequency – his voice receded to a gentle buzzing. _You look great tonight, Sally_, Anderson said, and she smiled and brushed it off because hell yeah she looked great, any friend would say that. _You look great_, he had whispered later, voice low and raw and intimate, and her throat was so choked with trying not to cry that she hadn't said anything.

"Sally? Are you listening?"

She looked up at Lestrade, panicked for a moment.

"I'm sorry?" she said carefully, remembering herself. He was looking at her through narrowed eyes.

"Is everything alright?"

Did he suspect? Sally could feel herself sweating and hoped Lestrade wouldn't notice. No, he couldn't suspect – she had been humiliated enough. She was a professional, adult, veteran officer and she would give him no reason to doubt her efficacy.

_Does he even care?_ part of her whispered. _Anderson asked you the same thing._

But no, this wasn't Anderson, this was Lestrade. Lestrade was different.

"Perfectly, sir."

He didn't look like he completely believed her, but he moved on.

The day passed in a haze. She knew she had been busy, but she found herself unable to remember what she had been doing for the last few hours. She knew she was acting strange – twitchy. Paranoid.

"How are things with you and Anderson?" Davies asked her with a wink as she mechanically ate her way through her lunch, seated with her back to the wall.

She suppressed the urge to break his nose and run.

"There is _nothing_ between me and—Anderson," she growled, despising the way her voice hitched on the last word.

"Oh, come on!" he said with a laugh. "We all heard the freak yesterday – sounds like things are really heating up—"

With a scrape, she pushed her chair back and stood, leaving her half-eaten lunch and Davies behind her.

That was what everyone saw, because it was what should have happened. And as much as the shame threatened to choke her, their version was preferable to the truth. Because in their version, Sally Donovan could still take care of herself.


	3. Justice

Another update! There should only be one (maybe two) more chapters after this one. Enjoy, and feel free to review! Every review I read makes my day a bit brighter.

Chapter 3  
She was in her office hours later, actually enjoying the mind-numbing effect of paperwork, when she heard the door open. Ignoring the way her bruises screamed, she jumped up, knocking over her coffee in the process.

"Want any help with that?"

Sally wasn't sure whether Anderson was asking about the paperwork or the coffee softly dripping onto the floor.

"No. Get out."

"Hey, don't be like that."

She just looked at him, every muscle in her body tense. She had left her gun with her uniform – downstairs.

He took a step closer and she backed away, bumping into the desk, feeling the coffee begin to drip down the backs of her legs.

"I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed last night. Do you want to grab dinner?"

It was the smile that did it – the little self-satisfied smirk that ignored any possibility Sally hadn't enjoyed it has much as he did.

She opened her mouth to shout at him, to tell him to get the fuck away from her, but something broke inside of her and she choked on her words as they tried to get out.

God, she was a police officer, and she couldn't even take care of herself. She couldn't even tell someone to get out of her office.

She shook her head, once, back and forth.

He took another step closer.

"Come on, you don't mean that. I know you enjoyed it—"

"Anderson?"

Sally looked over his shoulder and to the door that Lestrade had just poked his head around.

Anderson hastily took a step backwards. "Lestrade. Do you need something?"

Lestrade pulled the door all the way open, clearly telling Anderson to get out. "A moment with Sergeant Donovan, if you don't mind."

Anderson smiled somewhat nervously at her, and left. She stayed where she was as Lestrade walked in.

"Do you want some help with that?"

_No, not Lestrade, not Lestrade too –_

Panicked, she looked at him. His eyes were on the coffee spill spreading slowly across the desk, and held no hint of any ulterior emotion.

"I—no, I'm fine, I'll just—" She looked somewhat frantically around the office for something to clean up the spill. _Pull yourself together. You are better than this._ Looking up, she managed a smile. "I'll get it in a minute. What do you need?"

"I'm worried about you, actually. Mind if I sit down?"

"Go ahead."

She watched him take a seat in the other chair on the side of the desk.

"You can sit down as well."

"Yes, of course." She sank down into her chair and tried to look relaxed. _God, Sally,_ Anderson whispered in her mind. _You look great._

"I hope you don't mind me saying, but you've been acting very edgy today." She didn't say anything. His brows pulled together. "We've worked together almost as long as I've been Detective Inspector, and… I wouldn't normally say anything, but if something is bothering you…."

She swallowed. She was strong. She should be strong. This was pathetic.

"Nothing, sir."

He sighed, and stood. "I'll take you at your word. But if there's anything you want to talk to me about, my office is open."

She tried to say thank you, but it emerged so quietly that she wasn't sure if he'd heard. The door clicked shut behind him.

_Thank god, he doesn't know… Just like Sherlock._

Somehow, that was the hardest thing. Sherlock had read the situation just as Anderson did… And if Sherlock hadn't noticed, then she could bloody ignore what had happened, because it wasn't worth noticing.

The days passed. That was the only good that could be said of them – they did pass. That day was the last day where she let any of it show – she buckled on a mask so tightly that sometimes she couldn't even tell herself what she was thinking. During the day, she was Sergeant Sally Donovan, heels and hair and brisk efficiency and a quick temper. Working with Anderson on cases made her skin crawl, but she grit her teeth and kept at it. This was her job, and she was going to do it.

The nights were hell. When she slept she did so fitfully, plagued with nightmares that woke her sweaty and screaming. A bedmate might've helped, but she couldn't bring herself to strike up conversations with strangers anymore – much less invite someone into her house.

She had met Anderson on her first case, fresh out of school and thoroughly cowed by the grimly efficient officers paying her no mind. He had come up to her and brought her to Lestrade, and smiled at her on her first real case. They talked and got lunch and did everything that proper friends did. She might've even brought him home someday.

If Anderson could do something like that, then no man could be trusted. She ran it over and over again in her mind, dissecting every moment when she could've run, or fought him off, or said _no_ a bit louder. But at first she hadn't thought it was anything more than a poorly-timed romantic invitation. She was well-trained, strong, and perfectly capable of looking after herself, and by the time she began to panic it was too late. He was taller than her and just as well-trained at subduing criminals without a fuss.

Sherlock Holmes, she watched. She watched as he rose with the Reichenbach case, watched bitterly and at times obsessively. How could someone who had failed so deeply with her have such success with the rest of the world?

When the children were kidnapped, and the girl screamed, it was as if everything she had ever wished in regards to Sherlock Holmes was falling into place. If he was a fraud, if he was just another criminal, then it didn't matter that he had missed what had really happened between her and Anderson.

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping," she told him grimly, more pleased than she could say to be snapping on the handcuffs. Anderson was still standing there, smirking, but it felt like justice.

It wasn't long after that he jumped.

The day after, she made her way to the vacated crime scene, squinting up at Bart's in the morning sun.

"You won't know now," she told the empty air, as empty as she felt. Sherlock hadn't known, and now no one ever would. Maybe she could finally get past it and actually put herself back together. No one would ever have to know.

Behind her, Sherlock frowned.


	4. Security

This is the last chapter! I hope the read was worthwhile. If you enjoyed it, or have something to comment on, or feel like making my day a bit better, please review!

Chapter 4

"Sherlock." Mycroft smiled his tight little smile, setting his umbrella by the door. "How very unexpected."

Sherlock looked up from his position, seated on the couch.

"I need you to take care of someone for me."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows silently, turning and shutting the door before seating himself across the low table from Sherlock.

"Your flatmate is beside himself."

Mycroft watched as Sherlock's hands clenched for a moment, then relaxed. "He'll get over it."

"Hm." Mycroft folded his hands, making no move to get up and make tea – something Sherlock undoubtedly noticed. "I know how you scorn my help. Why come to me now?"

"You have the resources."

"That does not answer my question, Sherlock." When his brother made no move but to raise one languid eyebrow, Mycroft sighed. "And who is the unlucky individual?"

"Anderson."

Mycroft tutted. "Do you really think I would consent to settle your petty squabbles—"

"This is not a… personal vendetta," Sherlock said coldly.

"Hm." Mycroft looked at him through narrowed eyes, then stood. "Very well. But I expect a full explanation."

Sherlock smiled. "Wait on my text before you act, if you would."

"As you wish."

X

Donovan shut the door behind her with a heavy sigh, and took out her keys to lock it – twice, just to be sure. It had only been a week since Sherlock jumped, but the force was still dealing with the ramifications. Lestrade was facing an investigation; he hadn't made it to the office in days.

She turned and only prevented herself from screaming by sheer force of will. Fumbling in her bag, she pulled out her gun and pointed it at the long figure sprawled on her couch.

"I know what happened," said Sherlock, ignoring the fact that a gun was pointed at his head.

"You died. You're _dead._"

"Obviously not."

"You're a fraud—"

"Oh, come on, we both know that's not true."

She looked at him, hands not as steady as she would like. He looked back at her, completely at ease.

She lowered her gun but kept it in her hand.

"How the hell did you survive?"

"Come now, it's simple."

"Not to me." He made no move to answer. "You know that John Watson is going completely mad with grief—"

"John Watson is no concern of mine," he said coldly. "And as you so aptly told him, he will be better off away from me."

"You haven't seen him. I've never seen anyone so…" She searched for a word to describe the frozen look on his face, the way he turned up at the police station at odd hours, not talking to anyone but looking – they all knew – for a familiar black-coated figure. "Tell him you're alive."

"No." Sherlock sighed, pressing his fingers to his eyelids. "In any case, I know what I missed."

She started to bring the gun up, but, eyes still closed, he waved a dismissive hand and she let it hang at her side again.

"Missed what?"

His eyes snapped open. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about."

"No, I don't."

"Anderson."

She looked at him emotionlessly, practiced by months on the job.

He scoffed, throwing his gaze up to the ceiling. "Don't try that on me, you're not nearly good enough at it. _Anderson_. You know what I'm talking about."

This was Sherlock Holmes. Of course he knew.

"For how long?"

"Only since the fall. I'm afraid I completely missed it—"

She brought the gun up again and cocked it, the click echoing in the sudden silence. That damn casual tone—

"Do you have any idea—"

"I can take care of him for you." Sherlock held up his phone. "One text, and he's gone."

She looked at him, stunned into silence.

"How?"

"Doesn't matter how. I can do it."

"Why?"

"Doesn't matter—"

"_Why?_ Because you failed? Because you can't stand the fact that you missed something so obvious?"

"Yes." He looked at her.

She laughed humorlessly. "God, freak, you really are a cold bastard—"

"And because it's _my fault_." He wasn't looking towards her now, but down at the table, fingers clenched. "Because I missed it, and then I made it worse."

"You feel guilty?" She couldn't bring herself to believe that. "But not about me… about your Doctor Watson, is that it? You can't fix things with him so you're fixing them with me—"

He stood abruptly and she flinched.

"I'm sorry." He took a deep breath. "I—feel an enormous amount of regret for what happened with you, and my part in it. Forgive me."

He sounded sincere, but this was Sherlock Holmes. "It won't be that easy."

"I know." He held up his phone again. "One text. Your choice."

She looked at the phone, then back at him. _One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there._ Was this it, then? Sherlock Homes, the murderer? _He's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored._ But he wasn't doing this because he was bored. He was doing this because – in some sick, twisted Sherlock Holmes way – he actually felt something.

"I can take care of my own problems."

He cleared his throat. "Very well, then." He set the phone down on the table. "The first number – text them anything and they will take care of the rest."

"You're giving me your phone?"

"I have another one. And I've deleted all the files, so don't get too excited."

"Why should I take this?"

He smiled crookedly. "Think of it as – security. Should anything untoward happen."

He tied his scarf around his neck and walked towards the door, buttoning his coat. "I don't expect I'll be seeing you for quite some time."

"Seeing as you're supposed to be dead, yeah."

He didn't bother closing the door behind him, and she listened as his footsteps receded on the stairs.

"Thank you for the tea," he called distantly, then there was the slam of a door, and silence.

She looked around and saw the empty cup on the table, next to the phone.

"Bloody Sherlock Holmes," she said quietly. She picked up the phone and turned it over in her hands – an unremarkable bit of technology, black and unextraordinary.

_Trusting in Sherlock Holmes_, she thought. _I must be an idiot._

For the first time in months, she slept without nightmares.


End file.
